


Loyal

by Cyberwulf



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberwulf/pseuds/Cyberwulf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England’s rocky relationships with his brothers and his colonies have left him with abandonment issues. Northern Ireland tries to deal with them. Written for the Axis Powers Hetalia Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loyal

  
**Summary:** England’s rocky relationships with his brothers and his colonies have left him with abandonment issues. Northern Ireland tries to deal with them. Written for the Axis Powers Hetalia Kink Meme.

***

  
England didn’t come.

Northern Ireland stomps over to Scotland’s car and flings his change of clothes in the boot, ignoring Scotland’s greeting of “All reet laddie!” and the question “Didja win?” Aye, they won all right, but none of that matters a damn when England couldn’t be bothered to show up and watch. He climbs into the back seat and slams the door, and waits to be scolded.

Nothing.

“What’s that aboot?” Muted voices through the window, Scotland talking to the Republic. “Ye didnae lose, did ye?”

“No, we won.” A pause. “I dunno. We sang _Ireland’s Call_ , and then he got in bad humour all of a sudden.” He can almost hear her shrugging. “Sure it’s July.”

It’s true, he has less patience for the Republic at this time of year, and he feels a wee twinge of guilt because it’s not her fault he’s annoyed. But if he gets out and starts apologising he won’t stay angry. And he needs to stay angry. England never comes to his rugby matches and he’s sick and tired of it, so he is. Always a different excuse - no, sorry, always Scotland and Wales making excuses for him. England never says a shaggin’ word to him about it. He squeezes the rugby ball between his fingers.

Scotland gets into the car and starts driving.

“So why couldn’t he come this time?”

“Hmm?” Scotland’s busy lighting one of his cigars. Northern Ireland scowls at him in the rear view mirror.

“Excuse me, did I stutter?”

Scotland scowls back. “If you think you’re too big to go over my knee just cos you’ve a few hairs on your chin you can think again.”

Northern Ireland slouches in his seat and glowers out the window. “I’m sorry,” he drawls. “Why couldn’t England come to my match?”

“Aye, well, he’s busy,” Scotland answers, taking a drag off the cigar. “Some teleconference with Germany and America aboot the economy.”

Northern Ireland folds his arms and looks at Scotland in the mirror again.

“Would you ever look at me when you lie to me?”

Scotland glares. “One more word outa you and I’ll stop this car and let you walk home.”

If it was Wales, he’d write it off as an empty threat, but Scotland might do it. So Northern Ireland shuts his gob and fumes instead.

It’s because he’s doing something with the Republic. That’s why England won’t come. That’s what has the North so fucking angry. He nearly tore himself to pieces over his two traditions, he still struggles not to let it drag him down, and his official guardian is acting like a bloody wee child. Over _rugby_. He’s been very , very patient and he’s fed up of it and as soon as they get home he’s having it out, so he is.

He dumps his kitbag in the hall, ignores Scotland telling him to pick it up, ignores Wales’ sarcastic “oh hello to you too” and barges into England’s study, shoving the door open so hard it bangs against the wall.

“You didn’t come to my match!”

A strong smell of alcohol hits him, and all of a sudden he feels a wee bit uneasy. It shouldn’t bother him, the Republic smells of drink all the time, but this is different. England’s slumping in his armchair. There’s a couple of bottles on the end table next to him, and he’s cradling a full glass in his hands. He looks at Northern Ireland like he hates him.

“Came back, did you?” England slurs. He gets unsteadily to his feet and Northern Ireland takes a step back. England looks him up and down and takes a big gulp of his drink. “Look at you. Wearing her colours.” He grabs the North by his collar – Scotland’s right, he’s not too big yet – and roughly turns him around. “Wearing her _name_.” Northern Ireland stumbles as England shoves him. He turns around to argue – he chose William for William of Orange, O’Connell for Daniel O’Connell – but England’s weaving away from him, towards his desk.

“After all I’ve done for you…”

England steadies himself by putting one hand on the desk, drawing Northern Ireland’s attention to it. There are two old photographs on it – one of England with India during the colonial times, one of America during the war.

England pauses there for a minute, then continues over to the fireplace and leans against the mantel. What he says next is muffled, but the North manages to make it out.

“Why should you be any different?”

It’s not just about him and rugby, Northern Ireland realises. It’s never been about that. He wants to protest – how could England ever think…?

But how could he not, when everyone else left him?

In his dark days whenever he threw tantrums and had fits, whenever he screamed and wrecked the place, it was always England who took care of him afterwards. It was England who comforted him with tea and biscuits and told him no matter what, he’d never send him away to live with Papists. The Republic recoiled; she couldn’t cope with him. England never stopped loving him.

Northern Ireland backs out of the study and runs upstairs to his room. He peels off his rugby jersey and stuffs it way down in the laundry hamper. He digs through his wardrobe till he finds his Union Jack T-shirt. He grabs his orange sash as well and puts it on.

A wave of dizziness comes over him and he grabs onto the dresser – the change is too sudden – but it passes soon enough. Then he goes back downstairs.

England’s slumped in his chair again, and this time he doesn’t even look at Northern Ireland. His face is all pink, and Northern Ireland swallows when he realises it’s not just from the rum, it’s from crying too. He tugs on England’s sleeve.

“England?” There’s no response, so he tugs harder. “England, it’s me, wee Ulster.” England looks at him then. He’s getting too old for it, but Northern Ireland climbs up in his lap anyway. He buries his face in England’s sweaty shirt. “I’ll not leave you. I’m the good one.”

England holds him close, resting his chin on top of his head. The North feels his chest heave and braces himself, but no tears come, just a big sigh. Northern Ireland holds onto him tightly. If he has to hide everything about him that’s green for England’s sake, then he’ll do it. He owes him.

He stays until Wales comes and rescues him.


End file.
